


Parched

by musiclily88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Draco Malfoy, Asexuality, Depression, Gen, HP gen fic, Open Ending, Pansexual Character, References to Depression, Water, a bit - Freeform, ace - Freeform, hurt and a bit of comfort, the art of friendshipppppp, the ending of the war is different and so are the relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 03:14:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: Water. Water, everywhere.





	Parched

**Author's Note:**

> Nor any drop to drink.
> 
> A gen and ace fic about Draco.

He’s always loved the water, has Draco. At four, he learned to swim in the garden fountain at the Manor, his mother primly seated in a decorative wrought-iron, drinking a Pimm’s cup while murmuring encouragements. At seven, he was old enough to wander by himself to one of Wiltshire’s smaller ponds, taking just a towel and an Ever-Chilled bottle of lemonade proffered by the nearest House Elf. At night, he dreams of coursing through the ocean, of exploring the world via connected avenues of cool, protective water.

It’s suits him, he thinks, that the Slytherin rooms have views of the Hogwarts lake. The water laps gently against the castle walls on windy days, and the sound helps him sleep at night, particularly when he’s missing home.

:

Pansy and Vince lounge on the dock, tanning in the weak Scottish sun while Draco does laps. Blaise, Daphne, and Millicent are practising Levitation charms on their various possessions—Blaise’s pocket-watch, Daphne’s locket, Millicent’s hair-clip. Their ministrations eventually dissolve into dead-heading daisies and tossing them at one another, laughter loud in the early autumn air.

He’s eleven, and the world can’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know.

Draco pulls himself up onto the dock, feeling sleek and languid as water rushes down his back.

:

He doesn’t take to Hogwarts as well as he took to water, but that’s not unexpected, according to his father. Malfoys are often set apart, and they must perform to a higher standard than those around themselves. His professors seem to agree, pushing him to succeed beyond what he expects even of himself.

Every night, he stares out the window of his dormitory, and he thinks about how to be better than he is.

:

He takes to competition well, and he takes to the air nearly as well as he takes to water, but not quite. The air courses around him in a different way than the water does, hurts his ears and whips at his cheeks. Water laps at him, ducks inside his nostrils and washes in and out of his mouth as he opens his lips. It’s refreshing in a way that air isn’t.

He’s twelve, and no one can tell him anything.

 

He tells Pansy he’s ace in nearly the same moment she’s tells him she’s pan, and he immediately cracks a terrible, name-based pun. She punches him in the shoulder for it before they hug and cry a little, and then Pansy asks for help on her Potions homework.

Pansy’s never needed help on her Potions homework, but Draco takes it for the fair-out that it is.

:

To be fair, Draco is perhaps a little too obsessed with Harry Potter, but so is the rest if the Wizarding World. So, Draco’s not alone in that.

Draco is alone in a lot of things, but he’s not alone in that.

:

Draco’s not a good person, he doesn’t think. That’s not based on any one specific thing, but it still rings true as he rings in his birthday in June. He’s thirteen, and he’s stuck.

He misses the Lake when he’s home, but he has ponds and fountains to explore. He’s able to shuck off his robes and dive into enveloping water, and sometimes he’s able to feel something like alive. When he glides along on his back, looking up at the sun, he feels something like alive.

:  
He watches the Tournement during his fourth year, because of course he does, even if it’s a mockery of the things he truly believes in. He watches Krum, Delacour, Potter, and Diggory enter the Lake as if they know what they’re doing, as if they know what they’re up against. He listens to his peers as they watch the placid surface of the Lake for a near-hour, as if anyone has any idea what’s going on.

No one has any idea what’s going on.

Draco knows, knows well, that Potter has no idea just what the Gillyweed he’s ingested will do to him—he overheard Longbottom plant the idea in him prior, after all—but he also knows that Dumbledore has the wrong end of the stick with how to lead Hogwarts.

He’s fourteen, and he’s terrified.

:

Fifteen brings Prefect status, which is a relief to his parents but not to him. The only salve is the Prefect baths, as they come with the ability to lock the world out and away from himself. They come with a tepid pool for him to soak his tension-filled body in, and they come with mermaid portraits that somehow set him at ease.

He brings his supper to the baths, eliciting teasing from Blaise and Gregory but not from Pansy or Vince, who just shrug at his proclivities these days. They’ve become used to his quirks in a way that Draco himself has not.

So, he eats his seaweed salad in front of a portrait of someone he feels akin to, too discomfited to eat the unagi that the House Elves so enthusiastically offer him.

He joins the Inquisitorial Squad halfheartedly, mostly in his own self-interest but partly because he’s worried he needs allies rather than cronies.

He spends his nights staring out the window of the dormitory, watching the green water of the Lake lap against the windows of Hogwarts’ dungeons. He tries not to feel as though he’s being punished for something.

:

He’s sixteen, and no one but his family matters.

They don’t know that, but he does. The Dark Lord knows. So does Snape.

So does Dumbledore.

:

Draco doesn’t like being seventeen. He’s caught up in things bigger than his body, probably always has been, just like he’s caught up in the rooms of the Manor. He’s not permitted to leave the grounds outright, so all he can really do is dip one hand into the water of the fountain where he learned to swim, daydreaming of sunshine and lilypads.

It’s always his right arm, never his left, that he lets drape in to the water. His left arm stays covered perpetually.

:

After it all, he descends into something without a name, but he’s used to that. He remains high up in the air, and he doesn’t touch down for so long that his throat has gone dry. He’s low, but at the same time, he’s been thrown high into the atmosphere.

Inexplicably, his obsession with Potter comes to fruition, long after his family is gone, long after any of it matters.

Potter offers to take Draco out for a drink, offers to have him round for a meal, offers to go to the Quidditch together. Draco steadfastly refuses, has Tilly respond to the first few missives, but eventually, his annoyance and curiosity are piqued.

They meet up at the North Sea, both dropping down hard from their broomsticks. Potter laughs, toppling off of his, while Draco plants his feet on the lush grass.

“A swim, you said?” Potter asks, moving to take off his ratty trainers.

“It’s going to be freezing.”

“We’ll live.”

Draco’s dived beneath the water long before Potter has his kit off, only feeling alive when he’s met with the sensation of the sea.


End file.
